Honeycomb by Joanne Harris (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

the day on which the farmer’s wife roasted them both for Sunday lunch, the farmer declaring afterwards that he had never had a chicken so plump, or a piglet so tasty.

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In a city of World Beyond, there lived a woman who loved to sing. She was poor; her life was hard, her voice was nothing special, perhaps, but singing was her comfort and joy.

On Sundays she would stand in the square barefoot and sing for pennies. But secretly, she was singing for love. Every week she would come and sing, and every week the little crowd that gathered there grew larger. These people were mostly children, but their parents liked her too, and the woman who loved to sing saw the crowds grow and was happy.

One day the King himself heard her sing, and he was so impressed that he asked her to sing at his palace to entertain the royal children. The royal children loved her too, and the King, seeing her shabby clothes and the poverty of her home, offered her a place to live in the grounds of his palace, where his children could enjoy her songs anytime they wanted.

The woman could not believe her luck. Overnight, her life had been transformed. She had fine clothes; a carriage; a horse; a beautiful house on the palace grounds. And those who came to hear her sing now came in their hundreds, then in their thousands; more than enough to fill the town square ten or twenty times over. And so the King suggested that instead of singing in front of the church, she sang from the palace battlements, where everyone could see her. And so she did—she had no choice—and still the people kept coming.

But, much as they still loved her songs, the woman felt that something had changed in the people who came to watch. There were fewer children now, and more adults with envious eyes. People started to laugh at her and call her the King’s Canary. Even the King felt uncomfortable, and had a protective cage built around her to make sure no one threw stones at her. And every week, the woman sang to the crowds from her gilded cage. But she was no longer happy.

From the battlements she could hear every word that was spoken below. “Her voice is nothing special,” she heard. “Who on earth does she think she is?”

She heard when other singers came to discuss her intonation. “There are far better singers out there,” they said. “Why did the King even choose her?”

She heard when children cried because she wouldn’t come down to talk to them. “Why won’t she talk to us anymore?” they said to their parents.

And she heard when the parents said, “She’s far too grand for the likes of us.”

Some people had started throwing stones at the bars of the golden cage. The stones never hit the woman inside, but of course, she heard them, too, and she grew still more unhappy. But still, the crowds kept coming. And still the woman sang and sang, and looked for the love in their faces.

One day the woman lost her voice. She went out onto the battlements, sat inside her gilded cage, opened her mouth—and nothing. The crowds went mad with frustration. They shouted; they screamed; they begged; they threw stones. And the woman watching in silence from her cage understood that this wasn’t love; it was a kind of madness.

And so she went back to her fine house in the palace grounds. She took off her fine clothes and her shoes. From the bottom of an old chest, she found the ragged dress she’d worn when she was still singing for pennies. She wrapped an old shawl round her head to hide the face that too many knew. Then she went back to the marketplace, barefoot and in rags, and started to sing.

It was a busy market-day. Hardly anyone noticed her. The face that too many people knew was hidden underneath the scarf, and her voice was just an ordinary voice, pleasant, but nothing special. Hardly anyone listened to her. But for the first time in a long time, the woman was truly happy.

Every day after that she came to the marketplace and sang for pennies—but mostly for love. The people who stopped to listen to her singing were few, but every one of them loved her. And then, one day, a man passed by who recognized the woman’s face.

“It’s her!” he cried in excitement. “It’s the King’s Canary! Or should I say the King’s Cuckoo?”

More of the onlookers crowded round. The cry went up, half-joy, half-rage. Some of the folk were angry that they had been duped by the woman’s disguise; some were simply overjoyed that their idol was there among them. A fight broke out at the back of the group. Someone threw a stone. Someone pulled at the woman’s scarf to show the face that everyone knew.

“How dare you pretend to be poor?” they cried. “How dare you pretend to be ordinary!”

“Please!” cried the woman above the noise. “All I want to do is sing!”

But singing was out of the question. The noise of the people was far too loud. And finally, the woman left the square and went back to her gilded cage, and put on her shoes and her fine new clothes.

But she never sang again.

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Meanwhile, in a city of concrete and spires, the Lacewing King lived in exile. Hunting by night, sleeping by day, and living on what he could scavenge or steal, he survived alone and unseen by the Folk, who mostly went about their lives without suspecting he was there.

However, unbeknown to the King, he was not quite unobserved. Beneath the city, and during the night, the Moth Queen, mistress of deception, ruled the city unchallenged. Her spies were on every rooftop; in every wardrobe; on every street. Her people